


masquerade.

by turnaboutcafe



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Blood, Gangs, Gun Violence, M/M, Minor Violence, Undercover Missions, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23798092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnaboutcafe/pseuds/turnaboutcafe
Summary: Slowly, Iwaizumi pulls his dark green mask over his face, green embellishments reflecting dancing light spots across the room. On his arm, a wrist blade laid, concealed from the prying eyes of the party. As he scanned the room, a gloved hand extended itself to him, an aqua masked man approaching him."Care to dance?"
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	masquerade.

Iwaizumi sucked in a deep breath as he approached the entrance of the ball, suit uncomfortable as he walked, consciously bringing his hand to his wrist, touching the concealed blade instinctively every other moment. In his hand, he held a gold gilded ticket, adorned with aqua blue accents with pressed text written on it, indented by the heavy workings of a printing machine, the words ‘Seijoh Grand Ball’ written in bold serif font. As he handed the ticket to the guard in front of him, his hands quivered in the slightest, though barely visible under the soft light of the venue. 

The men let him through, not catching the deep sigh of relief escaping from Iwaizumi’s lips as he made his way into the ballroom, his nerves tensing. The ball reminded Iwaizumi vaguely of his senior prom, yet something dark loomed over it as masquerade-masked people danced around the room, outfits bleeding with expense. Even as he stood in the party, watching the spots of light dance around the room from the reflections of expensive crystal studded chandeliers on glass, his hackles rose, legs tensing in defensiveness as he continued to scan the room for his target. The mask over his face, studded with crystals and decorated with feathers, covered most of his identity, the starchy white button-up he chose to wear stifling him, muscles tense.

Being in a room with Japan’s largest syndicate was suffocating.

Still, he continued to keep his gaze trained throughout the room, watching his surroundings cautiously. Yet, he recognized no one. Muscles still tense, Iwaizumi stalked his way across the circumference of the area, chewing on his lips. It was going to be harder than he thought.

_“How much?”_

_“Any sum of money you wish for.”_

_“For what job?”_

_“Take out the Seijoh heir, and we’ll give you everything.”_

_“Who is he?”_

_“We only know him by name.”_

_“Being?”_

_“Oikawa. Oikawa Tooru.”_

The lights were dark, faces covered by masks throughout the ballroom. People danced in almost identical outfits, only the minorest of differences between them. Black suits, white button-ups, aqua ties. Iwaizumi wore an outfit identical to the rest. Research into the syndicate had clearly done him well.

As Iwaizumi stood next to glasses of champagne that lay resting on a table, a man approached him, entering the corner of his peripheral vision. A bejeweled aqua mask covered his face, white suit a stark contrast from the rest of the dancing guests, lavender button-up melding with the light blue mask covering his pale face. His hair was tousled, yet perfectly styled, brown locks framing what Iwaizumi could see of his face. His long, slender fingers were adorned with rings, white and blue crystals covering his manicured fingers, expensive, yet not tacky. His well built frame was evident under the suit, athletic, and clearly well trained, despite the lack of calluses on his slim fingers. His dark eyes were barely visible under the mask, yet Iwaizumi could see them glint for the briefest moment.

The man extended a hand to him. “Care to dance?”

As he gaped, the man took Iwaizumi’s hand into his own, gently leading him to the dance floor, polished shoes clacking against the marbled surface amidst the music. Silently falling into rhythm, Iwaizumi placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, the man resting his hand on Iwaizumi’s waist. Their other hands intertwined together, slowly dancing to gentle melody. Iwaizumi prayed that his mask hid his expression in the face of the attractive dancer.

“Do you normally dance with men on a formal occasion?” Iwaizumi asked, folding his fingers over the man’s, moving across the polished dance floors in gentle footsteps. “Some would criticize you, no? It is still illegal in Japan.”

“No one knows who I am under the mask anyway, so I'll take my chances,” the man smiled, movements graceful across the dance floor, leading the dance through the elegant ballroom, clearly acquainted with it. “You’re dancing with a man too, are you not?”

“Fair.”

The piano continued, leaving the two to continue their waltz across the dance floor, their flows perfectly syncing in with each other. The other man was taller, but only by the slightest, just a shred taller than him in those polished shoes. As they moved through the floor, his lead was evident, Iwaizumi simply following as he led him across the dance floor, movements fluid amongst the throng of other dancers, making them part ways like the Red Sea as the two danced amongst them, almost like a practiced routine. Like a dance of swords, their movements connected, flowing through the floor like waves on a beach, precision marking their movements.

“Who are you?” Iwaizumi asked as they neared the centre of the dance floor, bodies moving at a hastening pace of the piano in the background, a violin melding into the melody.

“That would ruin the concept of a masquerade party, wouldn’t it?” the man laughed, lips curved into a smile as amusement painted them. “Syndicates hold masquerade balls above all others for one reason.”

“And the reason being?”

“Anonymity. You don’t know who anyone is here.”

As they reached the center of the ballroom, guests moved out of the way, watching in awe as the two twirled across the dance floor, two strangers melding perfectly together, as if fated by the hand of God, dancing under the light of stars destined to cross. The man’s hold on Iwaizumi’s waist felt comfortable, like it belonged there. His hand matched Iwaizumi’s own, perfectly melding together, as if fate had brought them here.

“What brings you here today?” the man asked, changing the position of his hand on Iwaizumi’s waist, shifting his grip. “You don’t look like anyone I know.”

“If you recognized me, it would ruin the concept of a masquerade party,” Iwaizumi retorted, earning a laugh from the other.

“You learn fast,” the man smiled, flushed lips turning up into a smile. “But really, what brings you here?”

“What brings me here is the same as everyone else,” Iwaizumi replied. “Everyone at a masquerade party are here for the same purpose, are they not?”

“Half the people in this room are here to assassinate the heir,” the man chuckled, pulling Iwaizumi’s waist closer to him. His smile was almost like the Cheshire Cat’s. 

For a moment, Iwaizumi’s hand tensed against the hand of his dance partner, before it relaxed. “Then I refer to the other half of the people in the room.”

“Well, the other half are here to get laid by the Seijoh heir. Word is he’s quite attractive.”

Electric ran down Iwaizumi’s spine as the man’s lips curved into a dangerous smile. “Pick your poison.”

Their dance continued across the floor, perfectly in sync with the slowing song in the background, footsteps laguid, in time with the slow melody floating through the air. Their conversation lingered in the inches between their lips, electricity crackling between them, quips and feisty words exchanged, not a single conversation left untouched between them. Iwaizumi melded into the man’s touch, footsteps perfectly in time with the man’s, their movements synchronized, feet moving in tandem like a choreographed wedding dance, neither moving a single step out of the sense time constructed between them.

“It's a historic event,” Iwaizumi commented. “The masquerade ball, it’s the first I’ve been to.”

“A historic event?”

“The appointment of a new leader,” Iwaizumi expanded, forcing a smile on his face as he stared up at the man, comforted by his own namelessness behind the mask. “They call it the coronation of a new king.”

“Of course,” the man smiled, chocolate hair catching the light. It was soft. “In essence, it’s the appointment of the new king of Japan. The power is immense.”

“Meaning?”

“Seijoh rules Japan,” the man smiled, voice dripping in an emotion Iwaizumi couldn’t begin to diagnose. “Everything is under us.”

For a moment, Iwaizumi paused, before moving again in time with the man. The violin in the orchestra escalated, hastening its tempo, sending the two flying across the dance floor, perfectly in time with the beats. Their steps were quick, floating above the floor as they continued their waltz, almost a competition of speed.

“Imagine being him. On one hand, a newly given throne. On the other, the looming threat of assassination,” Iwaizumi breathed between steps. “Imagine that.”

“The syndicate always comes with a looming threat of assassination.”

“Meaning?”

“The syndicate is always under threat. One snap of a bond,” the man spoke, tightening his grip on Iwaizumi’s hand, “and the whole thing crumbles.”

“Everything?” Iwaizumi echoed, feet moving again.

“There are reasons why the syndicate deals with everything so quickly,” the man smiled, bloodlust seeping into his voice. “One wrong step, and you’re gone.”

Iwaizumi composed himself. “I suppose a fair amount of assassination comes with every ring.”

“And Seijoh is among the best,” the man smiled. For a moment, Iwaizumi thought his lips were blood red.

The tempo waned again, bringing the song to a slow sonata. The piano floated through the background, like a cloud above them all, careless as it watched over them. Iwaizumi was now pressed against the man, chin resting on the crook of his shoulder.

“Assassination is the specialty of Seijoh?” Iwaizumi asked, breathing in the man’s refined cologne. They were close to each other, so close. Iwaizumi could feel the man’s heartbeat.

“We assassinate in every way possible,” the man explained, pride edging his voice. “182 ways to date, but I suppose we could bring it up to 200 under the reign of the new king.”

“Why specifically with the new king?” Iwaizumi asked, fingers turning cold.

“The heir’s always looking for new ways to assassinate, sweetheart.”

A shiver ran down Iwaizumi’s spine.

“What ways?”

“Who knows?” the man shrugged. “He’ll probably end up on the news again, but run off scot free. That’s the true power of Seijoh. We fight with intelligence, and we leave no mess.

“Who is the heir, anyway?” Iwaizumi asked. As the song slowed, their waists came closer together.

“Oh wouldn’t you like to know?” the man asked, voice teasing.

Iwaizumi’s fingers instinctively brushed against his wristblade.

“I wouldn’t know,” the man continued. “Seijoh only knows of his power and influence. Not a word about his identity is ever let out.”

“Why?”

The man laughed. “Sweetheart, if everyone knew who the heir was, he would be dead in his sleep, don’t you think?”

“But what about once he’s appointed the throne?” Iwaizumi asked. He didn’t want to know the answer.

“Then that would be a different story,” the man chuckled, leaning his tall stature against Iwaizumi, wrapping his arms around his waist. The musky scent of cologne overwhelmed him.

“Because by the time he’s appointed king, he’ll be the one killing people in their sleep.”

As the song subsided, Iwaizumi found the man leading him to a table of drinks, sparkling champagne tinged pink under the lights. It almost glittered in the light, shimmering under the soft lights of the ball, akin to the chandeliers on the ceiling. The aqua-masked man held a glass in his long, slender fingers, observing the glass as he twirled the liquor in it, concentration painted on his face, before he let out a satisfied sigh. He handed the glass to Iwaizumi, taking another for himself to raise in the air.

“To the king,” the man smiled from underneath his mask, brown orbs gleaming.

Iwaizumi raised his own glass, clinking it against the man’s. “To the king.”

  
  


  


* * *

  


  
  


Iwaizumi blinked, eyes bleary as he tried to see past the haziness in his eyes, the numbing pain of a hangover coming into his head. The faint taste of bitter alcohol lingered in his mouth, coating his tongue. He could barely see anything in the dark room, the only light streaming in from a curtained tinted window, the tiniest sliver of light peeking through the gaps in the curtain. 

Slowly, he sat up, grunting at the tenseness of his muscles as he rubbed the exhaustion from his burning eyes, blinking rapidly. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he began to make out the shapes of objects hung onto the walls, the silver in it glinting against the light. The room was grand, lines of knives, weapons and shields adorning the wall of the room with terrifying sharpness, a large crest carved into gold hung above the silenced fireplace, gleaming as it greedily ate up the light, shining against it. Aqua and gold, Iwaizumi couldn’t make out the words below it.

Where am I?

Iwaizumi could barely think against the pounding of alcohol against his head. He remembered dancing with the man, having a glass of champagne, toasting to the king, then another glass, then another, and then…

Nothing.

Iwaizumi turned, another figure shuffling in the sheets of the bed. He was tall, chocolate haired, well built. On the bedside table, an aqua colored mask rested, covered in crystals of all kinds.

_“You’ll know the heir when you see him. Half of our men die.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because he lures them in and traps them before they can escape.”_

The man’s cheekbones were tall, pale face a deep contrast from his dark hair, features perfectly shaped. Instinctively, Iwaizumi brought his hand to the knife on his wrist, flicking his wrist to retract it as he continued to stare at the man, heart palpitating with adrenaline. Another glance at the large Seijoh crest told Iwaizumi all he needed to know about the mystery man’s identity.

He took another look at the man.

So this was why they all died.

Gritting his teeth, Iwaizumi angled the pointed blade, bringing it down into the man’s chest. Blood pounded against his ears, the ache of the alcohol dissipating. The blade came closer and closer, tip catching the light.

But then it stopped.

"You really should work harder on concealing your assassination plans, Iwaizumi-san."

A gentle fingers gripped his wrist, the man’s eyes wide open as he deftly snapped the blade from Iwaizumi’s wrist, sending it clattering onto the floor. Hissing, Iwaizumi jumped back, extracting a knife from behind his calf, pointing it at the man. He laughed, tossing his head back as he watched Iwaizumi’s face twist with confusion, eyes trained on him.

“How do you know my name?” Iwaizumi demanded, knife gripped firmly in his hand, blade gleaming against the dim light. “I never told you what it was.”

“I would be surprised if I didn’t know your name,” the man laughed, eyes twinkling as he twirled his blade around his long, pale fingers, knife dancing in his hand.

Iwaizumi’s eyes held itself at the man, gaze sharp as he watched his every move. His face was handsome, a loose smile on his face as locks of dark brown hair laid ruffled, large eyes sharp, cunning. With ease, he extracted another knife from his bedside, flicking it at Iwaizumi. In an instant, it whizzed past Iwaizumi’s face, impaling itself into the dark wooden wall, pointed end digging deep into the wood. Iwaizumi tensed.

“What does that mean?”

“I know everyone,” the man smiled, studying the blade, muscles rippling as he sent another whizzing past Iwaizumi’s face.

“But no one knows you,” Iwaizumi snarled, the Seijoh crest entering his peripheral vision. It was definitely him. “Grand king of Seijoh.”

“Oh, where are my manners?” the man laughed, mock surprise filling his face as he bowed towards Iwaizumi, arm tucked neatly behind his back. “Oikawa Tooru, Seijoh’s heir. I’m pleased to be your acquaintance.”

“You didn’t stop me from coming in even if you knew me.”

“So you noticed the guards at the door?” Oikawa asked, throwing his head back in laughter. “You thought it was a stroke of luck that they didn’t identify you as an outsider. How naive.”

“I wore a disguise. I embodied a Seijoh member. It wasn’t luck, it was skill.”

“Only it wasn’t, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa smirked, peeling another knife from the display. “You were identified by the guards, most definitely. You’re not from Seijoh. You touched your wrist knife throughout the ball. Seijoh members don’t own wrist knives.”

“Yet you still let me in.”

“Iwa-chan, what fun would come out of denying you at the gate?”

“What?”

“Half the people at that ball were there to kill me,” Oikawa mused, dragging the tip of his blade against the pads of his fingers, “and half the people were there to hook up with me. It was that simple.”

“I was here to kill you, yet you let me in,” Iwaizumi snarled. “Why?”

“It’s not every day that an attractive assassin comes through the gates of Seijoh,” Oikawa laughed, manic in his lilt. “The ball lacked spice as it was, and you were here to deliver. There’s no fun without a little assassination.”

“I was here to kill you,” Iwaizumi spat. “Not anything else.”

“You still danced with me,” Oikawa smiled, the tip of the sharpened blade now dragging against his pale jaw. “For quite some time, I would add.”

“Only because I didn’t know who you were,” Iwaizumi retorted, eyes blazing. “You had a mask on.”

“No assassin would willingly dance at a ball run by a syndicate,” Oikawa murmured softly, stepping slowly towards Iwaizumi. “First rule of assassination, never get distracted from the job.”

“I wasn’t distracted, I was investigating the heir’s identity.”

“Well your intentions while you danced with me suggested otherwise.”

Iwaizumi stepped back, knuckles white as he gripped tighter onto his knife, flicking the blade. Oikawa smiled, approaching closer.

“Dilated pupils, your legs facing towards me when you sat down at the party, slightly increased pulse when I pressed my finger against your wrist,” he mused, dragging his finger across the blade. “Are you sure that your intentions weren't misplaced?”

“What?” Iwaizumi demanded, taking another step back.

“Signs of attraction, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa grinned, laughs psychotic, knife twisting in between his fingers, agility evident. “How fearsome it must be to have a syndicate leader be an expert at psychology. It was elementary. Your body told me everything I needed to know.”

“I came with a duty,” Iwaizumi snarled. “And this isn’t going to stop it.”

“Well, I can’t let you fulfill it, can I?”

With uncanny speed, Oikawa lunged at him, knife driving towards him. Iwaizumi twisted, pulling himself out of the way as the knife slashed at where he was just a moment ago, tip of the blade gashing into his button up. Immediately, Iwaizumi jabbed his blade at Oikawa, aiming squarely at his stomach. Like it was a game, Oikawa twisted out of the way, mirth bubbling from his lips as he took another slice at Iwaizumi, cutting into his starchy fabric.

“Not bad, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi tightened his grip on the knife, Oikawa circling him, a maddened look on his face. His eyes gleamed with blood lust as his fingers held onto another knife from the wall, jerking it from its shaft. His fingers held the handle with the ease of a killer, a dangerous smile dancing on his lips as he held the tip of the blade between his fingers. 

In an instant, the knife whittled towards Iwaizumi. Desperately, he flung himself to the side, fingers tensing as the knife embedded itself into the wall beside him, imprinting deeply into the dark wood. Desperate, Iwaizumi grabbed at the weapon beside him, holding it in his hand. The harpoon was long, jagged. Tensing his muscles, he sent the weapon flying at the heir, moving through the air at lighting speed.

But it was caught.

“Impressive, but you need to work on your throwing; not nearly fast enough,” Oikawa mused, pursing his lips as he threw the harpoon to one side. “A good throw would look something like this.”

The harpoon shot past Iwaizumi, digging into the wall above his arm. Instantly, Oikawa took another knife from the wall, throwing it towards Iwaizumi. Momentarily stunned, the blade slashed his calf, blood seeping into his slacks, a searing pain coming through him. Iwaizumi fell, clutching his calf as he desperately clung onto the nightstand beside him, gripping onto the wood, the pain burning. 

“The slash of the leg is so effective,” Oikawa sighed, picking a knife from the ground. “Wounds them, but doesn’t kill them.”

As Oikawa spoke, he turned his back, knife spinning around his fingers. As he did, Iwaizumi felt metal against his hand, heavy. As he gripped it, his fingers felt the familiar girth of a gun handle.

“I don’t need to know how to throw a spear,” Iwaizumi spat, blood gushing from the wound on his calf, fiery pain ripping through his body.

“Meaning?”

“Why throw knives when you can do this?”

Iwaizumi’s fingers expertly loaded the gun, shutting the ammo in with a click, pointing it at Oikawa with trembling hands. His vision was hazy, a dark shadow cast against his eyes. He could barely aim as he struggled to keep the man in frame, his hold weak. Oikawa laughed, standing above him as Iwaizumi desperately pushed the searing pain away from his head, eyes sharpened on Oikawa.

“Lack of a silencer,” Oikawa sighed. The knife was twirling around his hand again.

“Do you think I care?” Iwaizumi spluttered, hands shaking as he tried to right the gun.

“Imagine what the scene would be like when my men rush into this room to find you with a smoking gun standing over their leader’s body,” Oikawa sighed. “It’s elementary, Iwa-chan.”

“Stop,” Iwaizumi spat.

“Do you like your chances of survival?”

“Stop!”

Oikawa walked closer to him, the blade pressing itself against his fingers, expertly handled in his grip.

“I know you better than you even know yourself, Iwa-chan.”

“What?”

“There's a reason why you don’t have a gun on your personage,” Oikawa murmured, stepping closer to him. Iwaizumi shifted, moving his back. Cold glass pressed against it.

“Most assassins would use a gun, don’t you think, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa laughed, amusement dancing in his voice. “But you didn’t.”

“Knives work better than guns,” Iwaizumi snarled, struggling to keep hold of the gun. “And they work better with me.”

“Your abysmal throwing skills suggest otherwise,” Oikawa ruminated. “And your grip on that gun right now suggests training. Your hands are calloused from heavy lifting, and you probably don’t have time to go to the gym. You were asked to use a blade for this job, weren’t you?”

“Shut up.”

“You were hired, and by the looks of the curved blade,” Oikawa murmured, gaze trained on the discarded knife, “Shiratorizawa. Ushiwaka’s syndicate, correct?”

The sweet smile was still plastered on Oikawa’s face. 

“He promised power, probably,” Oikawa sighed, lazily stepping closer to Iwaizumi. There was only a foot between them. The gun in Iwaizumi’s hands pressed itself into Oikawa’s chest, squarely in the center.

“Guns aren’t his thing,” Oikawa lamented, dragging the tip of his knife along Iwaizumi’s jaw. “Ridiculous, considering its efficiency. Ushiwaka, he’s odd. He likes slow death. Slow and painful death, one that would leave the target bleeding on the ground. That’s his style.

“I know nothing of Shiratorizawa,” Iwaizumi disputed, pressing the gun firmly on Oikawa. “I know nothing of them.”

“No one brings a knife to a gun fight, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa sighed. “The curve of the blade is identical to that bastard’s blades. It hurts when you impale it in someone and twist it.”

A trickle of blood ran down Iwaizumi’s jaw, Oikawa’s knife pricking the thick skin.

“But I supposed you would know that. You are from Shiratorizawa after all.”

“Shut up!”

Iwaizumi braced himself, pulling the trigger against Oikawa. As he pulled it, his ears rang, eyes screwed shut, arms giving out. He waited for a gush of blood.

Only, nothing.

“Did Shiratorizawa never teach you to check what you load into a gun?”

Oikawa barrelled into him, flinging the gun against the window behind Iwaizumi, a deafening crash of glass filling the air as shards of glass grazed past Iwaizumi’s skin. Savagely, he slashed the knife against Iwaizumi’s jaw, a clean line running down the side of his face, blood dripping down his neck. Fire burst through Iwaizumi, eyes seeing white as the blood continued to gush, searing pain running through him. Oikawa held him by the collar, holding him above the broken glass window.

“I may be a pretty face, but I wouldn’t leave a loaded gun on a nightstand,” Oikawa murmured, pressing his knife closer to Iwaizumi. “Especially when I’m about to sleep with my assassin.”

Oikawa’s lips were barely an inch from his.

“People tend to think everything’s in their favor amidst their own chaos,” Oikawa murmured, still tracing the knife gently on his skin. “If only it were.”

“Get off me,” Iwaizumi spluttered, weakly pushing against Oikawa. He could barely feel anything, the only thing keeping him conscious the searing pain on his calf.

“I don’t think you’re in a position to make demands, are you,” Oikawa whispered, “Iwaizumi-san?”

Oikawa pulled him closer to the shattered window, leaning him against the windowsill. He could hear the engines of cars revving from below, the city barely awake.

“Tell Ushiwaka he needs a better way to kill me,” Oikawa murmured in his ear. “Consider this a warning, Iwa-chan.”

Oikawa dragged him closer to the edge.

“But thanks for last night, though,” Oikawa smiled, face coy. “Be careful, it’s only a two story drop.”

At his words, Oikawa sent Iwaizumi crashing against the window. Light attacked his eyes, burning it as his legs gave away to the asphalt ground, limbs aching as he tried to right himself, the busy streets of Tokyo whizzing around him, not a soul in sight amidst the mess. But despite his wounds, without a moment's hesitation, Iwaizumi desperately hauled himself to his feet, hailing the first taxi, sinking into its seat, ordering the driver with a splutter of his lips. As the cloth pressed against his neck stemmed the bleeding, his mind raced, and nothingness flitting through his mind.

But even as blood soaked his shirt, all his mind travelled to was the aqua masked man he danced with that night, lips just an inch from his face.

  
  


* * *

  
  


_Dear **Iwa-chan** ,  
You are cordially invited to Seijoh's annual grand masquerade ball. A ticket and all details are enclosed within the envelope._

_Don't be late.  
— The Grand King._

**Author's Note:**

> so i read the [loyalty of a traitor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12429639) by deathbelle and remembered how fun writing action scenes was (even if i'm not the greatest at them), so i decided to try my hand at this!
> 
> any comments and kudos are greatly appreciated, please tell me what you thought about this fic <3


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